A.N.- /=Italics.

York, 1198

The aroma of barley and oats filled my nose and aroused me. I slowly shifted on the bed pallet that I shared with my two sisters and my eyes fluttered. What first struck me was how bright the light was through the hole in our roof, by which the smoke rose up and out. I sighed, feeling unusually contented and drowsy. I lazily started to pull myself up, cursing the dawn for coming. Through the haze I saw my mother, avidly wiping her hands on her tunic.

She was standing before the fire, cooking. The dismal atmosphere of our home may have clouded my vision, but she looked awfully forlorn. Her eyes seemed bereft of her normal beatific optimism. She looked up, and I retreated, peering straight up, not ready to face the hardships of the day.

With my eyes, I traced the parched mud of our ceiling then down to the wooden frame. Then a loud sound rent the air, slightly muffled. It was Lilly, our boisterous horse of five years. That silly thing couldn't go long without nibbling at your sleeve or anxiously kicking the dirt. She must be hungry in the barn. But . . . Why was she in the barn when there was plowing to be done? Where was Father then?

With these thoughts dashing, skidding, and crashing in my mind, a particularly blatant realization eventually hit me.

I was alone, and it was long past dawn. With many loud crunches of the hay, I pushed myself up, only to fall back down again. At my landing, I leveled with my mother's inquiring look and breathed, "I slept in!" I scrambled to Mother and noted that her expression only softened.

"It's all right," was all she said. Her eyes were alight with mirth. But upon looking closer, there was something else. Somewhere behind that gleam she seemed to keep a glint of hurt at bay.

/Behind/ that gleam? I shook it off.

"Why did you let me sleep in?" I exclaimed, guilt-stricken.

Mother clicked her tongue and sadly cupped her hand under my chin.

"What a dutiful daughter we have. But, not to worry, we'll manage. "

/We'll/ manage?

Even with the vague smile that played at her lips, she looked so miserable. I tenderly kissed her cheek.

With that, she sniffed and continued to busy herself with the fire. I inhaled deeply. The smell of fresh brown bread mingled with a faint scent of dirt met my nostrils.

Soon I was gulping my breakfast gratefully and stealing quick glances at Mother. I had eventually given up on prying to discover the reason for her strange behavior and now was looking for clues. She gave none, and we ate in deep silence.

When the sun was high in the sky, Mother and I were disassembling the table. Then a large bang announced the presence of someone entering the house. With him came the uplifting rush of an outside gust. I shivered. Spring was said to be here, but the remnants of winter still lingered.

"Father," I nodded, then smiled meekly. Then I allowed silence to fall between us before I gingerly said, "Where were you? I have heard poor, confused Lilly calling for you."

"I visited Father Betrem to confess," he said gruffly, but reverently.

I then noticed Mother slipping through the door. When my father coughed, my eyes darted back to him. I met intense eyes.

"What about?"

Blast that fool of a horse, for she chose that moment to express her impatience! He seemed to perk up.

"Well, ya said so yourself. Lilly's waiting." Then he hastily kissed me on the head and added, "Your sisters are out washing at the creek."

Immediately, he left, and I was alone. I felt a chill creep under my skin. Lord, it was cold in here! But I had a feeling it wasn't just our dank house. Something was wrong.

I walked outside. Four wooden crosses stood forlornly on the hillside. The first one was crooked, inclining toward our home. They were altogether very plain. They were also small. But the memories they kept with them were neither plain nor small.

I don't know why that day I decided to stop at the site. But I did, and I kneeled on the cold ground beneath which they were buried and talked-or whispered, rather.

I told them about the Holy Pope Innocent III and his 'valiant attempt to recapture the Holy Land'. Was it truly God's Will? Would God allow all of his children to fight and to be slaughtered? Or not even have the chance to live? (I then caught myself feeling like a pagan: not having faith in Our Lord. Father Betrem would be ashamed, and offer a mild, 'He works in mysterious ways.') Aside from it being a bit of an abomination, I did not ask them to ask the angels or God, for they could not talk. They never had a chance to talk, to breathe, to laugh, and to play: to live. They were my stillborn brothers and sisters. All of them. They were never properly given names, and it wasn't on their grave since I could not write, but the least I could give them was a name - to give them an entity in this world and the next. There was William, Alice, Mary, and Vincent.

A shout from a small body jolted me out of my reverie. I saw little Elaine hobbling to me, heaving a bucket at her side as its water sloshed out. Leena, balancing two buckets, and Fiona, taking careful, dainty steps, also seemed happy to see me. I turned to give my last respects then dashed down the hill to retrieve more water with them. It was going to be a long day.

Well, I did not question my parents the rest of the day. And it was easy enough to appear too busy to speak to them because . . . I was. Father finished his plowing that day, much to our vast relief. Leena's and my job was to sow the seeds while Elaine watched for crows. Diligent as she was, Elaine paid dearly for her aggression toward those black monsters; she was so sore she was near to starting a flood of tears by the bitter end. Leena had no better behavior than Elaine but was at least more discreet than Fiona. I felt numb all over, and my quaking stomach shook my limbs. We all blundered into the house sweaty and grimy.

After we reminisced, and Elaine shared her story of her battles with the crows, Father ruefully told us he had something to say. He stood up and took a step with a sound that resonated into the dismal atmosphere - no one talked.

"I'm afraid there is no dinner tonight-" he turned to me "-You know how hard it has been to feed you all this past year," he said, looking at me. "God knows I tried, but the crops and Lilly . . . they aren't as good as they used to be." I heard Mother breathing slowly behind me.

I nodded as I bowed my head.

"I heard that Lord Harold was in need of another servant . . ." I didn't like his voice. It was unsettling to my already aching stomach. It was as if he were speaking business, but tinted with sorrow. After I sent him a look of horror, he continued, trying to keep his voice steady, "...a servant to live near his manor, and be supported better than . . . I could ever offer. And you-" he didn't bother to be vague anymore "-will be paid." A pang of disbelief hit me more strongly than a physical blow could ever have.

"You're going to send me away!?" I backed away a bit, unfamiliar with this scene. My sisters and mother around us didn't even try to appear not to be listening. "Sell me?!" I breathed in disbelief, the idea sinking in a bit more, along with my family's stares. He took a step toward me. "I shall never see you again, you know I won't! I-"

Tears fogged my vision. It was all too wrong! I was supposed to get engaged to a local man and live near my family. My trembling fingers snatched my kirtle and hair; otherwise I would have pushed open the door and fled.

Suddenly, I realized Mother was coming at me, I made a disdainful gesture to protest, but my head betrayed me and landed in the nook of her shoulder. Someone clung to my side and I soon found myself sobbing in rhythm with seven-year old Elaine.

"Oh, Anna . . . By doing this you would save us all." She had stopped crying now, but her breathing was ragged.

'Save you all but myself/, I thought. I would be languishing in the servant's quarters, missing home. She then pulled me away at arm's length and scrutinized me. I felt hair stuck to my wet cheeks, and my nose hurt terribly. I stared back and saw her own cheeks wet. She pointed to my sobbing sisters.

"You are the oldest. Almost sixteen. A woman now. They need you to be strong." I feebly swayed in her arms, trying to defy what she was saying.

She loosened her grip on my shoulder and her hand landed gently on the side of my face. It seemed to transfer her warmth and encouragement into me. She leaned in closer.

"We need you to be strong," she said. Her expression took on a new hold now. It was full of respect and equality . . . toward /me/.

My bitterness dispersed mostly, but "Why does it have to depend upon me?" My voice was small.

A long silence settled upon us, only interrupted by sniffles from my sisters. How could a diffident girl--woman like me, scarcely of any importance to anyone outside my own home, survive alone?

"I am going to miss you so much."

So. It had already been decided. I had no choice. I clenched my fists and fell into my mother's arms.

I muffled into her shoulder, "I will, too. So much." I shivered, thinking of my new life without my family to protect me. I cried the rest of the night.

When dawn came that fateful day, pale sunlight flooded the fields, feeding the newly planted seeds, encouraging them to grow. It hit the stone of the lord of York's manor but the walls seemed cold. The village below the great house stirred. The streets were intermingled with merchants, farmers, their animals, and one pitiful creature: me.

Father and I walked in silence. My mind jumbled with thoughts; I hated him for this was. That's what I wanted to conclude, anyway. But then, under the brim of his hat, he passed me a glance for the first time that day. It was filled with love, appreciation, and . . . yes, it was respect.

I had had four days to brood over my turn of destiny; I had decided I would send the money back to my family. My sisters had death-grips on me until I left. Or perhaps it was the other way around. I would miss them so. And, of course, Mother, too.

We both stopped then. I blankly stared up at the stately, towering house. Grief bubbled up in my throat. This was it.

In one fluid, rapid, and desperate motion, I turned to the left and hugged my Father fiercely. I clenched my teeth and I heard him cry a bit. This wasn't fair.

So he didn't protest. He truly cared for me. Letting me do this was his last resort.

Sooner than I'd hoped, I was shuffling to my new existence in the world. I felt like I was marching to my death, like an already-homesick soldier finding his assurance to Heaven.

I would do it for Father. For Mother. My sisters. And myself.

A/N: I don't normally write like this--this sad, I mean--, but it was an assignment in history; we had to render out what a peasant's life during the middle ages would have been like and we didn't get too much time.